


Balancing the Scales

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bargaining, Curses, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27261460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Jason's been cursed ever since he woke back up beneath the earth, clawing his way free of death's touch and back into the world of the living. Anywhere he goes, misery and death follows, the latest time in the form of a dragon, razing an entire town to cinders and ash around him. But there he still stands.He may not be able to risk bringing this curse back to his family, but he can at least seek revenge for the innocents caught up in the wake of it. Killing a dragon sounds like a good place to start.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 173
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	Balancing the Scales

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! As we all know, when dragons are an option, dragons is what you're going to get from me. So here we are, day 5 of SladeRobin Week, the prompt... 'Dragons'. Enjoy!

He's every bit what Jason's information said he was. Tall and big, with long legs stretched out underneath the table he's sitting at. Blade nearly half as long as him propped up against the wall at his side, with an enormous circular white jewel in the pommel that practically glitters with magic, even from where he stands. Hell of a prize for a thief, except that stealing it would mean dealing with the man it belongs to, and Jason can't imagine many people are brave or truly stupid enough to do that.

Long white hair, pulled back in a ponytail. A single pale blue eye, opposite a black eyepatch that doesn't quite hide the ragged gash of scars coming from beneath it. Full, throat to toe, hide armor reinforced with burnt orange dragon scales. The matching helmet is on the table. The knife strapped high on one hip has the distinct look of _bone_ , curving and jagged on one edge.

Jason swallows, steels his nerves, and approaches.

The man doesn't look away from the show happening at the other side of the tavern — some song-and-dance routine, Jason barely looked — till he's standing just at the other side of the little table. There's a moment of calm consideration, an appraising flick of his gaze that takes in his armor, the blade at his hip, then his face.

"I—"

"How much?"

Jason blinks, taken off guard by the sharp interception. Slade Wilson, widely agreed to be the most deadly and efficient mercenary in at least four kingdoms, raises the eyebrow not bisected by the scars and waits.

Okay, he can match that kind of attitude. "Half."

"Of the take?"

"Yes."

Slade hums, taking a drink out of the mug in front of him. His gaze flicks back towards the entertainment, for a couple moments, and Jason does his best not to fidget. It's… Hard. He can't really even tell if he's been dismissed and just doesn't know it, or he's just being made to wait. Out of hope for the latter, he fights the urge to speak.

"Take a seat," he gets, in apparent reward for his patience. "I'll listen."

It's a start at least. There is actually an empty chair at the little corner table, so he pulls it out, sits down like his throat isn't tight with nerves. He can't really get comfortable in his armor, but the nerves weren't going to let him sit anything but straight anyway. (And it's not like he's here to get comfortable, not like Slade, with the sprawling ease and the drink.) If Slade is half as good as everyone he's talked to seems to think, then the mercenary knows he's nervous; nothing he can do to fix that. He just needs to approach Slade how he apparently clearly wants to be approached: like a mercenary.

"I want to hire you."

Slade snorts quietly, into the top of the mug, but all he actually says is, "For what?"

"A dragon."

Slade's eye had fallen to the mug, but it snaps back up to him when he says that. "Oh really? You want me to kill a dragon for you, boy?"

It's easy, looking at him, to see why people might do that. "No," Jason answers, though, "I want you to help _me_ do it."

For a second he's still. Then, sharp and sudden, a grin cracks his face. The mug clunks as he puts it down. "Now that's more interesting. And you're offering half the hoard, when it's done?"

Jason fights the urge to swallow. "Yes. You can have first pick, I don't care."

"What else?"

What else…? "What do you mean?"

Slade slings an arm over the back of his chair, relaxed. "Kid, dragons are never a sure thing, and I don't hunt them for free."

"The hoard—”

"Is damn good incentive, but it's not a payment, it's spoils. I'm not getting sucked into some years-long hunt for revenge or something. If your dragon flies off across the sea, or is already dead, or ends up burning you to a crisp, I'll still want something for the time I put in." The single eye stays fixed on his gaze, cool but amused. "You can tell me what you're going to pay me, I'll tell you how much of my time it buys you. That's how this works."

Fuck.

"I don't—” Jason cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. He didn't think—

He doesn't _have_ anything. It's not like he has access to any of the Wayne riches, and what he had from the al Ghuls he spent a long time ago. He has his armor, his sword, his horse... Something tells him his horse isn't going to buy much of anything, and even if Slade wanted his sword, he's not selling the only thing he has left with any tie to his family. What else could he possibly have of any real value?

He wasn't expecting to have to _pay_. A dragon's hoard is enough to let any man buy a lordship and land, with enough left over to live till the end of their days. Who would ask for more _on top_ of that?

An actual, professional dragon slayer, apparently. Gods _damn_ it.

"What do you want?" he hedges.

Slade's mouth curls into a smirk. "Gold is always good, but since you're asking, I'm guessing you don't have any. Do you have anything else of value?"

His hand twitches towards the hilt of his sword, but he doesn't look at it. Grudgingly, his chest twisting in on itself, he admits, "Nothing."

Slade's gaze is sharp as he cups his mug in both hands, studying him. "Nothing you're willing to sell, anyway. Doesn't leave you with many options; what's this dragon worth to you, kid?"

Jason's mind flashes to the town he rode through on his way back to Gotham. Melted stone, skeletons half turned to ash, blackened ground and the utter silence. Everything but him, destroyed because of the curse he bears. He takes a breath. Forces himself to hold Slade's gaze. "Anything."

The blue eye narrows. The moment stretches as the seconds tick by, Slade's gaze steady on him even as the rest of the room moves and goes on without them.

"Careful, boy," he finally says, voice lower and quieter than any of his words so far, yet somehow still intimately audible. "That's a dangerous offer to make."

He knows.

"Name your price."

Slade watches. Silently. Long enough that Jason has to fight the urge to speak, to convince, to _plead._ He— He needs this. With or without help, whether it costs his life or anything else, he needs this done. It's all he can still do for his family. He might not be able to risk being around those he cares for, but he can help them. He can avenge what they've lost.

"Come upstairs." Slade's voice is steady, still quiet. Considering now, though.

Jason swallows. Breathes out, and nods.

Slade drains his mug, and sets it down as he gets out of the chair. The sword leaning on the wall is picked up, held in one hand at his side as if it's easy, instead of a sword most men would struggle to even lift. He doesn't leave anything on the table to pay for the drink, just hooks the sword over his back and heads for the stairs towards the back of the inn. Jason forces himself not to hesitate in following. He gets up, follows in the wake Slade leaves behind him, cutting through the crowd.

Up the stairs is a corridor, then a sharp turn and another staircase at the opposite end that Slade heads up as well. Finally, at the top of that, a second corridor with three doors along the length of it. Slade goes to the one at the end. Jason doesn’t see where he pulls the key from, but it unlocks the door easy enough. The room revealed when Jason follows him in is larger than your average inn room, with a larger bed, but not particularly fancy beyond that. No embellishments. This isn't that kind of an inn. Or… other establishment.

He looks around as Slade tosses the sword onto the bed, noting the half-opened pack at the foot of it and the clearly mussed sheets. Slade’s been here a day or two, probably, but doesn’t expect to be here much longer. If he was planning on staying, surely he'd have unpacked further than that. Or maybe it's the mercenary lifestyle to always be ready to move on. How the hell would he know?

"Shut the door," Slade orders, over his shoulder.

He does. And after a moment's hesitation, locks it too. When he turns back Slade's looking at him, and gives a small nod of approval before beckoning him forward. He takes a breath and obeys, moving forward till he stands in the center of the room, Slade before him with arms crossed. It's clear, now, just how tall he is. Even with his weight tilted towards one side, hip slightly cocked, he still towers. It almost reminds him of Ra's, except that Ra's was lean and long instead of having shoulders and arms that look like they could wrestle bears.

"So who are you, kid? What makes you think you can hunt a dragon?"

He just barely resists crossing his arms to match the posture. "Pretty sure the idea of hiring you is that I _don't_ think I can hunt a dragon. I'd rather have help."

Slade's gaze flicks down and then sweeps back up, lips curling in a thin smirk. "You need it. Your blade looks decent, but your shield won't do much but melt all over your arm, and all that armor's going to do is be a very convenient pot to cook you in. Ideally you'd want dragon scales or hide, but if you don't have the gold to afford me, you definitely don't have the gold to afford something like that."

Great, so glad he came up here to get told by a dragon slayer all the ways that he's totally unprepared to kill a dragon. "Well there's nothing I can do about that, is there? So, _you_. What do you want? What's the price?"

Instead of actually giving him an answer, Slade asks, "What's your name, kid?"

"Jason."

There's a moment of pause where Slade waits for him to add on some sort of family, or a title, but the smirk only twitches up further when he doesn't. "Alright, _Jason_." He flicks a hand to the small table opposite the bed, and the two chairs at it. "First, how about you take a seat and tell me about your dragon. You know where their hoard is?"

"No," he admits, as he takes one of the two seats. Slade takes the other, leaning back in it in the same sprawl he had downstairs. "The sightings are very spread out, but I know its name. Deathstroke."

Slade seems to pause for a moment. Then he straightens and leans forward in the same breath, a grin spreading across his face. "Oh _really?_ That's a hell of a target you've chosen, kid. You're far from the first to go after him, you know."

He didn't know, but he's not surprised. The shadow he saw, the spread of those wings… It wasn't some young, local dragon, that was obvious. It was an old one, big, grown, and lethal.

"Have you?" he asks.

Slade shakes his head. "Like I said, I don't hunt dragons for free, and no one's ever offered enough to convince me to risk going after a creature like that. I like a challenge, but I do my best to avoid certain death."

Jason tries not to swallow, he really does, but it happens anyway. "Is that what it is?"

"Doesn't have to be. Anything can be killed." He leans back again, tilting his head a bit. "Won't come cheap, though."

Annoying as it is, Jason guesses it makes sense that Slade would ask exactly what dragon it is before he actually settles on a price. Maybe it's supposed to be a last opportunity for him to back out and rethink this whole thing.

"Tell me the price," he demands, instead.

One answer he's thoroughly not expecting is the simple, drawled, "How about you?"

Jason blinks. Stares. "I… _What?_ "

Slade shrugs. "You don't have anything to pay me with, kid. You want my time? How about you pay me back with yours? I'll hunt your dragon with you, and when we're done, you'll stay to serve me till my time's repaid."

He's not sure he likes that idea. At all. "Serve you how?"

"However I want. I'm sure I can find uses for you."

There's not anything in Slade's voice that suggests something... unacceptable. But Jason can't help his mind wandering that direction anyway. What if Slade demands… ‘acts,’ from him? He doesn't want to go back to that, not even for this. (But then the people from the town will stay unavenged, and his curse will keep him from his family for the rest of his life. If his life ever ends, and he doesn't simply live on forever. The thought terrifies him.)

He finds his hand has wrapped around the hilt of his sword, metal cool and familiar under his fingers, the leather wrapped around it molded to the particular size of his hand after so long. That familiarity lets him breathe in a little more deeply and lift his chin to meet Slade's gaze.

"How long?"

Slade doesn't answer for a long few moments, just looking at him. Then crosses his arms, something sharper entering his eye. "I'd say my time's worth about twice yours. I spend a year, you owe me two, and so on. Unless there's something more valuable about you than I know, 'Jason'?"

He could say that he's a son of the Wayne kingdom. He could say he was second in line to the throne, right up till the day a mad necromancer put him in the ground. Temporarily.

He doesn't.

"No. Deal."

Slade's grin returns. "Deal."

* * *

Slade is a massive asshole. After a full month in his company, Jason can say that with full confidence.

He's _also_ insanely good at what he does, so, there's that. Jason's not even fully sure how he found the information that he did, just that he suddenly one day aimed them a completely different direction and refused to say exactly how he learned where Deathstroke apparently is. Something about not explaining his methods, or something. Protection of his tactics. It makes _sense_ , it's just infuriating to not know why they're suddenly headed off the opposite direction from every clue he himself has heard.

There's a little part of him that wants to think that Slade is purposefully delaying them finding the dragon, to get more time out of him afterwards, but he forces that idea down under his heel where it belongs. Everyone he talked to, everyone that pointed him in Slade's direction, talked about him being the best. You don't get a reputation of being the best if you don't honor your deals, or if you purposefully swindle your employers. That kind of thing leaves a bad taste in most people's mouths.

He doesn't trust Slade when it comes to his own health, really, but he trusts him to do the work. Besides, the faster he gets this done, the faster he'll get to go back to doing other things, right? It's in Slade's own interest to get it done fast.

(He hopes.)

Maybe he should have assumed, but Slade's apparently also an excellent fighter. Not just against dragons, but people. Thinking back on it, the people that pointed him Slade's direction never tended to specify that he was solely a dragon-killer. They just called him a mercenary, and mercenaries are known for taking all kinds of work. Dragons, beasts, men…

He finds this out when Slade, one night while dinner cooks, picks up his sword and tosses it to him, and then draws his own without fanfare. A grin, a quick challenge, and then he finds himself trading blows with the mercenary. Then he finds himself in the dirt. Seven times in a row, before Slade apparently decides Jason's too exhausted to be any more fun and takes pity on him.

It happens about every four or five days, after that. He doesn't manage to hit Slade even once, but he'll admit that the fights are kind of exhilarating. Humiliating, and Slade keeps mocking what he's doing wrong, but it's fun. Mostly. He thinks he might actually be learning things, too, though he can't imagine that's the goal. He's pretty sure Slade's just bored and looking for something to do, and abusing him is the easiest entertainment around. He wouldn't put that past Slade. _At all_.

It's a strange monotony. He's traveled by himself, but doing it with someone else is different. At least Slade doesn't seem any more interested in idle, meaningless conversation than he does. He talks sometimes, but most of their time is spent in companionable silence and Jason is totally, completely alright with that. It's nice, actually. Being… alone, but not alone.

(In _everything,_ actually. The first time Jason tried to wait for Slade to finish washing off in the nearby stream before doing it himself, Slade rolled his eye, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and bodily threw him in. He said something along the lines of modesty being a waste of time, but Jason was a little too busy spitting out water to hear the actual wording.)

All in all it's… not bad. Slade might be an asshole, but there are worse things to be. He does his share of tasks, at least, and takes up most of the hunting without saying anything about it. Always manages to bring something back, too. Honestly it's better than Jason's eaten in a while.

A full month in, camping off the only decent road heading towards the Icelit Mountains (he's still not sure that's where they're actually heading), Jason wakes up to a shout.

He rolls over and grabs for his sword on automatic, and only barely gets it out in time to deflect the flash of a blade towards his shoulder. He scrambles back, swings wide to get himself the space to get his feet under him. It's dark, and the dying light of the fire isn't much to see by, but the person coming at him looks like a man. Dressed in the blacks and greens that make him hard to see against the shadowed background of the woods, his blade the only thing that stands out as the lights of moon and flame reflect off the steel.

Raiders? Thieves? Outlaws living in these particular woods, just taking the opportunity of their camping site to try and rob them?

Jason's on the defensive again before he can come to any kind of a conclusion. He can hear the clash of steel off to his side, matched with cries of pain that seem higher than Slade's usual deep voice. He grits his teeth and focuses on his own fight; Slade can handle himself.

The surprise gave the first advantage to his attacker, but Jason comes to the conclusion quickly enough that he's the better fighter. He stays calm as he can, plays cautiously to keep the blade away from his bare skin, and strikes where he can. It doesn't take long. One mistake and he runs the man through, right through what feels like the resistance of simple leather armor. His free hand keeps the man from striking in return as he shoves the man back with his foot, and one final slash opens the front of his throat deeply enough to be more than fatal. He may live another minute, but that'll be it.

He looks up then, registering faintly that it's gone quiet. When his gaze skips over the rest of their campsite, he understands why. There must be another dozen of them, dead or dying on the ground around the fire, and Slade standing in the middle of them. His chest is still bare, spattered with blood that's obviously not his, and the sword in his hand drips with more. If there's even a scratch on him, Jason can't see it.

It's unnerving. And impressive. (And he can't settle on one reaction or the other.) Anyone with a sword, armor, and reputation like Slade's has to be good at what they do, but he can't say he expected… this.

Maybe that's why Jason doesn't hear anything. Slade does, though. His head whips around, the bone-dagger in his other hand flinging out into the darkness just as Jason feels the _shunk_ of impact into his chest.

The breath he tries to take is wet, as he staggers. Catches before it seems to reach his lungs at all. His head dips to look at the thick shaft of the arrow sticking out of his chest. High, closer to his left side than right.

Oh. His knees buckle, dropping him to the ground. Oh, there's the pain. Yeah, alright, that definitely hurts, _fuck_. Okay, no more arrows through the chest if he can avoid it.

" _Damnit_ , kid," Slade is snarling, suddenly right in front of him. There's a rough hand at the side of his head, holding it up. "You better not have made me waste all this time."

Jason blinks, staring up at him. He swallows, takes a shaking breath, and realizes that he can taste thick, wet copper. Well, that's not good.

" _Kid_ —”

"It's fine," he tries to say, but he's pretty sure it comes out slurred. He hears the _snap_ of wood, and it jars his chest, pulls a gurgling cry from him that spits blood over his bottom lip. He can feel it.

The _wrench_ of the wood through the rest of his chest is one of the weirdest things he's felt before, a sucking slide that finally gives and leaves a weird emptiness behind. Yeah, definitely no more arrows. When it comes to ways to die, this one sucks. It's just slow enough that he can feel it all, too, the blackness just now starting to tunnel his vision, head falling back as he chokes. Slade's somewhere above him, but he's lost track of exactly where. It doesn't matter, anyway.

Jason's very familiar with what dying feels like, and as his eyes slip closed and his senses begin to numb, he feels it again.

He lets it take him.

* * *

When he wakes, Slade is still sitting beside him. The first thing he hears is the slow, methodical rasp of steel against stone. When he pries his eyes open, it's to the sight of Slade's single blue eye, focused down at the blade on his lap as he sharpens it. Jason takes another minute to come back to himself, shifting fingers and feet to make sure everything still works, testing his breath. There's still a very faint sting of pain in his chest, but it's mostly gone. Should heal quickly enough.

Slade looks up when he starts to push up on his arms, eye narrowed. "Welcome back."

He's annoyed. Jason isn't real surprised by that.

He grunts, shaking off the last fog in his head.

"I don't know many men that can take an arrow through the chest and walk it off," Slade says. He sets the stone aside, fishes out a cloth from somewhere and begins to polish the blade instead. "Tends to be very powerful magic users, and you're not one."

"Nope," he agrees. Everything seems to be working. Good. It always has, but he's always a little worried that he's going to wake up paralyzed or something. That would just be the perfect thing to add to his days, wouldn't it?

Slade still has blood over his chest. Black and dried now, which gives him a hint about how long it’s been. Sword's clean, but he hasn't put on any armor. Must have killed the archer.

"Who were they?" Jason asks, lifting a hand to rub at his chest.

"Bandits. Likely have a hideout nearby, saw the light from the fire." A last swipe of the cloth down the blade leaves it shining, and the cloth is tucked away. "Probably killed plenty before us."

At least he was stripped down to the waist when he went to sleep. Won't have another ruined shirt. Definitely he needs to clean off, though. Dried blood flakes off between his fingers as he rubs at the new, tiny knot of scar tissue on his chest. That'll vanish in a day or so. Anything that kills him never stays.

"Well, then let's go in case they've got any friends."

He starts to push up, and suddenly there's the tip of a blade at his throat. He stills, gaze flicking up to Slade. His eye is narrowed, his hand steady where it holds the sword.

"Not yet, boy." The blade presses just slightly harder, forcing him back an inch. Slade's not smirking at him, for once.

He swallows, and shifts back another bit to keep the blade a little more safely distant.

"First, you're going to give me an explanation."

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](https://skalidra.tumblr.com)


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